Monday, 21 October 2013

Thud, Thud


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Thud, thud. The beat of my heart. Thundering like a jackhammer, but still quite slow. 

Our eyes met across the vibrating dance floor, latching together like two swimmers caught in a whirlpool, desperately clinging together, each one trying to push the other down. I saw in his eyes a selfish, appallingly unhappy sort of need, toxic and capable of killing me, and knew that in my eyes was the same look; but we needed each other so badly, that we didn’t even care.

Tuesday, 24 September 2013

24th September 2013 - Cats Don't Lay Eggs


File:Little cat.jpg
Source: Wikimedia Commons
They say that cats don’t lay eggs.

By ‘they’, I mean biologists, but you’ve probably already guessed that; you probably haven’t guessed, though, that by ‘don’t’, I mean ‘don’t normally, except for this one incredible time when my cat did’. I suppose it’s just one of those fundamental truths—that cats don’t lay eggs—that’s so blindingly obvious to all involved, that no one ever even considers the possibility of oviparous felines; as a consequence, no one ever thought to concoct a plan that could combat the horrors that occur when a cat’s normal biological processes become perverted by some, as yet undetermined, external or internal source.

Monday, 23 September 2013

18th September 2013 - Time Upon a Razor's Edge

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. And then an axe cleaved it.

Don’t get me wrong, it didn’t just cleave my tongue; it cleaved my entire head. But I guess that’s the nature of an axe—to strike atwain and smash the brain, separate it from ivory skulls that try so hard to protect.

Monday, 8 July 2013

8th July 2013 - The Black Orchid Blossomed

Macbeth and the Three Witches
(Precursor to 'Fragments of Dreams')



The black orchid blossomed and the Red Witch cackled; her scarlet robes fluttered on the windy mountaintop as, head thrown back and throat exposed, she screeched with delight at Him trembling above. Vermillion hair cascaded across her heaving shoulders, blown asunder by the wind, and a solitary tear of joy trekked down her cheek to stain her robes.

2nd July 2013 - The Justices Speak (Chronicles of Trinist)


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Source: Wikimedia Commons

Justice Bennett, Lady of the Upper Marshes and Chief Justice of the Trinist Supreme Court, sighed as she read the case summary in front of her; she paced up and down her chambers, her red robes swirling around her as she turned. Her brown hair, steely grey at the temples, was up in a tight bun, but the agitation of the past few hours had seen some stray hairs come loose; the light formed a corona around her head as it reflected off these strands.

28th June 2013 - The Arrest of Dame Gracet (The Chronicles of Trinist)

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Source: Wikimedia Commons
“I shall bow before him on bended knee,
My fealty to give as long as I live,
Or ’till reign ends, as the gods may decree.”

The crowd finished singing the Hymn of Fealty, and the king screeched with hysterical joy, clapping his hands with delight at the thought of this entire assembly singing in his honour. King Samuel of Tix’chan had been crowned ruler of Trinist only a week ago, and still drew great pleasure from hearing vast auditoriums of people singing his honour. Throwing his head back on the ancient throne of the Tix’chan family, built from the bones of an ancient creature dug from the mountains centuries ago, Samuel laughed at the vaulted ceiling.

Friday, 28 June 2013

27th June 2013 - Fragments of Dreams

File:Gyzis Nikolaos - Archangel, study for the Foundation of the Faith - Google Art Project.jpg
Source: Wikimedia Commons
The giant tosses feverishly in her sleep; a powerful virus is snaking through her bloodstream and approaching the agèd brain which controls the massive corpus that lies before me. The neural arcs that form the centre of this wondrous creature are ancient: formed so long ago, that they may as well be carved in stone.

Fitfully, the giant casts an arm out in her sleep, and the chains that tie her to the bed rattle rustily; catching a fistful of her tight-cropped red hair, she wrenches it out; with a bellow of pain, the giant awakes and casts her eyes about fearfully. Nothing moves in the room, and blood trickles slowly down the giant’s temples. Warily, she closes her eyes again and drifts off into a troubled reverie that straddles the gulf between waking and dreams.

26th June 2013 - Madame Dellacarte



File:Bridgman, Frederick Arthur - The Siesta (Afternoon in Dreams).gif
Source: Wikimedia Commons

Nakim sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed; looking back at the supine form snoring lightly on the mattress, he pulled out a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and lit it. A crescent moon floated serenely in the sky, casting a milky glow over the night-blue of the bedroom; the room was otherwise unlit, and the objects in the room were all cast in the same dark blue, alleviated slightly by the moonlight.

Wednesday, 26 June 2013

25th June 2013 - I probably wouldn't have killed him



Source
It’s not just that I hated him: If I had merely hated him, I probably wouldn’t have killed him. Wait, no; that’s a lie. I would have killed him anyway. But if he hadn’t embarrassed me so badly, I probably wouldn’t have taken such extreme steps with the body. 

Tuesday, 25 June 2013

24th June 2013 - Nos Rêves



File:Le Sueur, Eustache - Songe de saint Bruno - 1645-1648.png
Source: Wikimedia Commons

A quoi sert-il de suivre nos rêves, alors que le monde entier se met à réaliser la même chose ? En fait, je m’avance trop vite ; il faut commencer par se demander « qu’est-ce que c’est, d’avoir un rêve ? » 

C’est une idée floue, difficile à préciser ; commençons avec l’affirmation qu’un rêve est l’état idéal futur de sa vie, l’état où tout a été réalisé et où il ne reste rien à accomplir. On peut imaginer qu’un tel état serait marqué par un bonheur, un sens d’utopie. Bien évidemment, il n’est probablement pas possible d’atteindre un nirvana pareil, mais il faut créer des rêves si grands qu’on ne les perd pas de vue lorsqu’on on les poursuit (d’après Wilde).

Friday, 21 June 2013

21st June 2013 - Fucking Coward


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Source: Wikimedia Commons
“And that’s why the intertemporal inconsequentialities of the consumption axiom are,” droned Professor Honda, pausing here for dramatic effect, “rather consequential.” Honda stopped to laugh at his own witty joke, and some knob in the front row tittered politely.

20th June 2013 - Jack & George

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Source: Wikimedia Commons

“I love you.” Jack looked into his lover’s eyes, filled with hope, but knowing that he probably wouldn’t get a response.

“Is maith liom bainne.” George spluttered the words weakly, and stared blankly past Jack, gazing into some abyss that was only visible to him.

19th June 2013 - Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains


File:Jacques Réattu - Liberty Traveling the World.jpg
Source: Wikimedia Commons

They can’t hold us. Or so we told ourselves: That was before they held us, a tight vice grip of encircling, banana-chewing gorilla arms squeezing around our waist, hugging our ribs so tight that we thought they would crack; with hot air breathed down the neck, they whispered insane-creepily into our ears, directly onto our cochlea:

“Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.”

18th June 2013 - Gorgeous Blonde & Fat Woman



File:Crystal Palace Saloon.jpg
Source: Wikimedia Commons

Hugh stared at the polished mahogany countertop of the bar, and swirled his whiskey tumbler. The single ice cube inside clinked lightly against the sides of the glass; he took a sip, clenching his teeth and pulling his upper lip backwards to bare his teeth as the whiskey burnt his throat and tongue.

17th June 2013 - Hunt & Capture

File:Jacob-angel.jpg
Source: Wikimedia Commons

The rain fell in cords. Thunder flashed, followed by a roll of lightning; nature in disarray. Surging clouds of violet black blocked the midday sun, plunging the street into midnight darkness. Cars drove through the raging tempest, wipers on hyper-speed and the light from their headlamps was fractured and disarrayed by the cascading rain, reaching the eyes of pedestrians in a starburst of red, white and yellow. The rain fell on the pavement and road so heavily that it splashed momentarily upwards, forming a crown of clear brilliance before falling back.

New Project

Given that I've been writing sporadically up until now, I have decided to take up a new project in order to impose some discipline on myself. From now on, I will be writing—or at least attempting to write—a one-thousand word short story at least five times per week. I started this project some four days ago, so the fruits of this week labour will be posted simultaneously.

I plan to post the stories as they are written, although there may be some delays as work/life interrupts. 

Enjoy!

Tuesday, 4 June 2013

The Wyvern's Quest


File:Wyvern icon.jpg
Source: Wikimedia Commons
The wyvern stalks along the sandy shore: it does not know what it is looking for. Espying a child sitting on the beach, up it creeps and at the child it peeps.

‘Dearest young one of skin so pale,
I do not know what I am looking for.
Would you be so kind
As to help me find what I am a-searching for?’
The pair together, we shall not fail.’

Friday, 24 May 2013

The Restaurant

File:Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec 001.jpg
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Synopsis: H. is out to dinner with the woman he loves. As the night progresses, H. begins to realise that his previous perceptions of his dateas a physical, flesh-and-blood beingare changing. Coloured by his love, he sees her now as a juxtaposition of memories and emotions. However, circumstances shift and his date begins to change in front of his eyes; however, has his date has actually changed, or have H.s perceptions of her changed?

The restaurant bustles with energy; people giving orders to waiters dressed in formal black suits and white shirts, noise from the kitchen ebbing and surging—a clatter of pots and pans, a bellow of commands, a hiss of water—as the swinging doors open and close. A delicate fragrance of rosemary fills the air as a waiter passes by with a chicken dish: H. can almost taste it. A lingering taste, an array of chemicals forming a pleasurable physical sensation, rest on his tongue; the catfish had been delicious. The plush chair molds itself around his buttocks, a sensation of sitting on a cloud. 

Saturday, 11 May 2013

Conversations Surprises

Jacques sortit de son auberge, et alluma une cigarette. Il inspira la première bouchée dégoûtante de fumée qui frappe les poumons comme une bourrasque chimique ; la première bouchée est toujours douloureuse, mais cela double la bouche et la gorge, et les prépare pour la ruée délicieuse et calmante de nicotine.

Sunday, 31 March 2013

Overheard Conversations


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Source: Wikimedia Commons
James stepped outside the door to his hostel, and lit up a cigarette—the ones with a special mint bubble at the top of the filter that was activated by pressing down on it until you heard a snap. He breathed in that first awful mouthful of smoke that hits your lungs like a chemical gale; the first mouthful is always awful, but it lines the mouth and throat, preparing it for the chemicals about to enter the body, following by the rush of delicious, pacifying nicotine.

Wednesday, 6 March 2013

Qu’est-ce que tu fais là ?


Source: Wikimedia Commons

Qu’est-ce que tu fais là ?

Demanda le monsieur,

Dont le grand nez n’a

Rien à faire avec ce poème.

White


Source: Wikimedia Commons

White. White like you wouldn’t believe; whiter than white, as though I had just stuck my head in a pail of fresh, creamy cow’s milk and opened my eyes. The white shifts and moves listlessly (but how? How can I see the white moving, if I see nothing but white?) as though trying to go somewhere. A burst of colour explodes on my retina for a second, shifting opalescently; looking for all the world like a jellyfish floating in a turbulent sea. Just that quick burst of colour and all is back to white again. I can’t even be sure that I saw colour, because everything is white: even that explosion of colour was, now that I think of it, white. It might be better to describe what I saw as the white shifting and flaring for a second before resettling, like a sudden disturbance on a placid lake surface. I stare at the white all around me; even my body is white and, if I had a mirror, I would not be surprised to see that my eyes are white too. I am as white as the environment; there could be other people in this place (wherever I am) with me. But I cannot see them: they are white, too. I remember that brilliant flare from a moment ago, the white-indigos and white-scarlets and white-jades flickering on my brain long after the light itself has flickered out. The synapses of my brain tingle with pleasure as they remember that brilliant sparkle of white, feeling starved of illuminary stimulation in this blank space. I look around at my surroundings; white, white, white everywhere I look.

The Storm


Source: Wikimedia Commons
Lightning sparkles across the sky, and the  storm gazes  across its destruction with a malevolent glee, surveying the damage that its  armies have  wreaked in its name. Wind howls  across the valley, an army of banshees moving across the fields, shrieking and cackling and causing the grass and trees to buck and toss in terror;  the wind, being an ill-disciplined army of wretched creatures, refuses to show fidelity to any particular compass point, and blows  in multiple directions simultaneously, throwing the environment into chaos. So terrified  are the trees  that  it would have been no great surprise to see them  lift their great roots up from deep within the soil and bolt across the landscape, their roots acting like octopus tentacles to propel them at great speed, spraying earth like ink from their roots to confuse the storm.